


in bloom

by stoprobbers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Flowers, Fluff, Romance, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 09:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21491734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: He should have brought her flowers. That’s what you’re supposed to do on a date, right?
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24
Collections: Jancy Week 2019





	in bloom

**Author's Note:**

> jancy week 2019 day 6: idiots in love

He wipes his hands on his jeans for what has to be the hundredth time in the last five minutes and curses himself – loudly, _angrily_ – in his head.

He’s nervous. He’s _so_ nervous. His heart is pumping and his hands are clammy and he can’t seem to catch his breath and he rang the doorbell what had to have been at least 20 minutes ago except that’s not possible, he’s sure that’s not possible. There are cars in the Wheelers’ driveway, so they’re home. And Nancy knows.

Nancy knows it’s their first date. What she doesn’t know is how nervous he is about it.

He supposes he shouldn’t be; that after hunting monsters and exorcising his little brother it should be easy as pie to take her to Benny’s for a burger, to the Hawk for a movie, kiss her on her front stoop and dream about her all night. But here he is, flushed and sweating, and horrifically empty-handed.

He should have brought her flowers. That’s what you’re supposed to do on a date, right? Flowers, maybe chocolate? He should have asked his mom. His mom would know. His mom’s been on dates before.

And, oh god, if _that’s_ what he’s thinking he so much worse off than he realized.

Time, stretched thin and slow and painful, suddenly snaps back into place as he hears footsteps behind the heavy wooden door, and Nancy’s muffled voice _I’ve got it, mom! _

He casts about helplessly for something, anything, a dandelion in the grass, a particularly good-looking leaf, _anything_. Silently curses the Wheelers for not planting flowers, as if anything would still be growing in November anyway. Is about to give up when he catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and practically lunges.

“Hey,” Nancy says as she steps out the front door, closing it carefully behind her. He know he must look flustered because she looks deeply, _deeply_ bemused.

“Hi,” he breathes out, taking in the careful way her hair is curled, the sheen of gloss on her lips.

“Whatcha got there?” she asks, gesturing to his hand. He thrusts it out almost involuntarily, a sprig of holly with a fall of bright red berries, the only ones on the bush so far.

“It’s, uh, for you?” He doesn’t mean it to come out a question.

She lifts her hand, takes the sprig gently from him, and examines it closely. She looks on the verge of laughter, biting her lip, and he’s trying to open a hole in the ground beneath him when she lifts onto her toes and presses a gentle kiss to his lips.

“Thank you,” is all she says and tucks the holly into her hair behind her ear. Her eyes are still dancing as she takes his hand, but as they walk back to his car the knot between his shoulders starts to relax.

+++

She swings their hands between them as they walk through the snowy parking lot, splitting her attention between his words and keeping an eye out for patches of ice on the asphalt.

“I appreciate your faith in me,” he’s saying, “but I’m definitely going to fail this test.”

“You are _not_,” she retorts, pulling him a little closer and out of the way of a slick spot. “We went through the flash cards half a dozen times yesterday.”

“And then I slept for maybe three hours.”

“I left at nine!”

“Not because of you.” His voice gets softer, his tone suddenly distant. “Will… had a bad night.”

“Oh.” She doesn’t know how respond to that, moves even closer to his side and squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I thought he was getting better?”

“He was. Or, is. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a straight line kind of a thing. Some days it’s better, some it’s worse. Last night he just had a lot of nightmares. And he doesn’t want to wake up mom so…”

“So he wakes up you.” She finishes for him. Touches her temple to his shoulder in a small gesture of comfort. “You’re a good brother.”

“You’d do it for Mike.”

She considers that, thinks of the night she spent comforting him after Eleven disappeared. She did not do the kind of job she knows Jonathan does.

“Perhaps,” she allows, “but not as well. You’re a saint.”

“I’m not a saint, I’m his brother.”

“You’re a wonderful brother, and you’re also smart, so I guarantee you that even though you’re tired, you’re going to ace this test.”

He huffs a laugh and stops them outside the front entrance of Hawkins High. She’s about to protest – it’s _freezing_ – but he bends quickly and plucks something off the ground before straightening and presenting it to her.

It’s a snowdrop, small and delicate and topped with a few lingering icy flakes from the night’s dusting of snow. As she takes it from him she feels a warmth spread through her, starting from deep in her stomach and blooming out until she’s blushing a delicate pink.

“Thank you,” he says as she takes it, holding it to her nose to see if it has a scent. She can’t detect one, not in the icy air. “Who knows, maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” she tries to joke, but it comes out too soft, too shy to be any less than serious.

They part with a quick kiss at the end of the hallway as usual, names on the wrong ends of the alphabet, lockers on the wrong sides of the row and first period classes on the wrong sides of the school. She keeps the snowdrop with her, and misses the first part of that morning’s lecture as she twirls it between her fingertips.

+++

He walks down Maple Street on the first real warm day of spring, marveling at how the air can feel fresh and crisp and comforting all at the same time. For once there is no rain, just lofty light white clouds and blue sky and he smiles at the sun hits his face.

Moments like these are the ones he most wishes he had a Walkman for; he wonders if he can get Nancy to loan him hers for a while. She barely uses it. Though, he supposes, they're usually driving around in his car. And his car is usually playing music from its stereo.

Not today, though. Today he's walking and it's not annoying, it feels great.

He's just turned up her cul-de-sac when he a flash of blue-violet catches his eye. He barely breaks his stride, just reaches down to scoop it up before ambling up her front walk to the door.

"Where's your car?" Nancy asks when she's yelled her goodbyes to her mother and joined him outside.

"It's so nice out. I figured we could walk."

"I mean, sure, but weren't we going to go to a movie?"

"It's not that far away."

"It's not that close either." Her eyes narrow. "Is your car broken?"

"No, my car is not _broken_," he defends reflexively, then pauses, considers. "Well. A little. But _just_ a little. Not broken, just... temporarily out of service."

She laughs at that, shoves at his arm and lets him pull her down her front walk toward the driveway.

"It's fine. They've got the part I need at the shop, I just need to wait until I get paid to pick it up," he slides one arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight to his side. "It'll be a nice walk. And here, I got you this."

He holds out the crocus, looking at her face, not the bloom, as she takes it from him,

"It's beautiful," she says sincerely, but stops their ambling next to her mom's new station wagon. Why Mrs. Wheeler has it parked outside and not in the garage, he can't fathom. "But we don't have to walk."

"Oh?"

"Nope," she gives him a wide smile and reaches into her purse, fishing around with one hand as she keeps the flower safe in the other. "Ta da!"

She's as perfectly coiffed, carefully appointed in her driver's license photo as he'd expect but a thrill still shoots through him.

"You did it!" he cries, lifting her off the ground and spinning her in a circle. She shrieks, smacks at his upper back, and when he sets her down she's blushing hard.

"Come on," she steps over to the station wagon door and opens it up. "Let's go to the movies."

He watches her clip the crocus carefully into the corner of the sun visor's mirror, tries not to think about the ways that makes his heart flip. She turns to him, eyes wide and serious.

"Seatbelts!" she announces and waits for the click before turning the car on and backing out of the driveway. She only bumps into a bush once.

+++

She's trying to focus on the delicate work of tying a living plant into a sturdy knot but the flashes of yellow that keep invading her vision are _very_ distracting.

"What are you _doing_," Nancy laughs, swatting Jonathan's hand out of the way for what feels like the millionth time in the last 10 minutes.

"Seeing if you like butter."

"_What_?!"

Jonathan laughs at that, leaning back on one hand while he twirls the small yellow flower between his thumb and forefinger, holding it aloft like a demonstration.

"It's a buttercup. You put it under your chin and it tells you if you like butter." He says it like she should know already, moves it under his own chin. "What do you see?"

She looks closely, wondering what exactly it is she's looking for. All she can see is the reflection of the yellow petals on his pale skin, and says so. He smiles wider, and then all she can see are his dimples.

"That means I like butter." He leans forward again and holds the flower under her chin. "So do you, apparently."

"Who doesn't like butter?" she shakes her head at him but she can't keep the fond grin off her face. It is warm and the sun is shining and summer break is almost here and it feels like the whole world is spread out before her. She's got a real job waiting at a real newspaper, she's got a boyfriend she's stupid in love with, and she's got no more finals left to take. She's got it all, basically.

"I don't know," he shrugs and lays the buttercup aside. "What are you doing?"

"Making a crown," she murmurs, plucking another white clover flower from the grass and knotting the stem carefully around her last bud.

"How'd you learn how to do that?"

"I dunno," she shrugs, "Barb and I used to make these all the time. They're everywhere."

It's a bittersweet memory but it doesn't sting as much as it used to, for which she's glad. Jonathan lays a hand on her knee anyway, and she's glad for that too. Carefully ties the last remaining stem in place and then sits up straight. Almost smacks him in the face with her head; she didn't realize how close he's scooted to her.

"Viola!" she announces and holds it up carefully in two hands. Jonathan leans in to look closer, but she moves it out of view, drops it on his head instead.

It's entirely too small, more of a bracelet than a crown, and it perches on his hair like the a terribly-sized halo or a maybe a really ridiculous carnival game (_Step right up, get the flower crown on the boyfriend, win a prize!_), and she can't help it, she cracks up. When she manages to tamp down some of the peels of laughter she finds he doesn't look put out at all, is smiling at her fondly, so fondly it makes something inside her chest squeeze.

He leans in, brushes his nose against hers, and then his lips, kissing her softly, so sweetly that she almost feels bad for laughing in the first place.

"So," he murmurs against her mouth, "am I a pretty princess?"

"Oh!" she cries and lunges, knocking him flat on his back when she shoves him and not fighting when he brings her with him.

The flower crown gets lost in the grass for a while, but she catches him picking it up when the sun finally starts to set and they decide to make their way back home.

+++

Nancy calls her thanks over her shoulder to Ally after she closes the car door and starts the walk toward her driveway. It comes and goes, how much that moment hurts. How much she gets lost in the memories of an old brown half-rusted Ford with overly soft leather seats and new wave mixtapes in the stereo that smelled like two teenage boys and age. It's more often then not, though sometimes she keeps herself in the present. It's been harder since October turned into Novemeber and Thanksgiving became more of a reality and less of a wish.

So far her mom hasn't say she _can't_ borrow the car like planned, so she chants it to herself as she walks: _twenty days, twenty days, twenty days_.

She shouldn't be counting the days, it makes it worse, but she can't help it. She misses him, so much.

"Hey mom," she calls as she comes in, dropping her backpack next to the stairs. She hangs her coat on the hook and wanders into the kitchen where her mom is, predictably, standing at the counter and chopping something that will eventually become dinner.

"Hey Nance," her mom smiles at her and it warms her, a little. "How was school?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yup," she shrugs, pulling a pitcher of juice out of the fridge, "same old same old."

"Well," there's a warm, sly note in her mother's voice that makes her look up from the otherwise automatic movements of getting herself a glass, "something came for you."

"Something?" she furrows her brow, thinking.

"A letter." Her mom nods at the pile of mail on the corner of the counter. "Why don't you take a look?"

The letter is sitting on top of the pile and the handwriting is so familiar it makes her heart skip a beat.

"I'll be upstairs!" she calls, grabbing the envelope and tearing out of the kitchen, juice and glass entirely forgotten. Her mother shouts after her, exasperation and her name, but she barely registers it.

She closes her bedroom door behind her, locking it even though there's no reason to, and practically leaps onto her bed. The envelope is thick, at least two pages she's guessing, and oddly lumpy. She opens carefully, delicately on one end and tips it so the paper will slide out.

She doesn't expect the petals.

She stares at her lap, momentarily uncomprehending. Soft pink petals, vivid yellow, a few green leaves. The end of the letter is sticking out of the envelope but the petals have fluttered down onto her thighs and comforter, as fragile and light as tissue paper.

Still confused, but intrigued, she gently works the letter out of the envelope, with more flowers following. And yet it's nothing, nothing at all, compared to the cascade of blooms that opening the letter releases.

They're all flat, as if they've been pressed between the pages of a book. Maybe they have been. Some are clearly houseplants, some look like they've been pilfered from bouquets, and even more are the random assortment of wildflowers he used to pick at random and present to her for no reason. They're somehow still fragrant too, and it makes something inside her bloom too.

_Nancy,_ the letter starts, _Is it stupid to say I miss you? I mean, it's obvious, right? It has to be. I miss you, all the time, every day. I think about you all the time, and I still pick you flowers. I can't seem to help it. I hope you don't mind that I'm still giving them to you. I hope you like them too._

She feels the tear drip down her cheek, not even aware she's started crying. It follows the peaks and dips of her smile to the corner of her mouth and she tastes salt, but the taste isn't bitter.

She settles back on her comforter, among Jonathan's flowers, and reads.


End file.
